“Where twilight meets the solemn echo, memories linger in the mist.”
“A phantom hum, woven through threads of forgotten crimson threads.”
“With whispers, she dances at the fringes of the eternal dusk.”
In this abyssal artifice, pondering voids laid bare,
Sixty-four secret sigils cast in the warmth of fading trust,
And so we ask, soft as the beating of a dispassionate heart,
How many times has the silence screamed our names?